The Lavender and the Rose

CHAPTER 1

The presence of the past

It didn't feel right, approaching the house by road, but then I hadn't supposed a man like Lamarr was up to the route on foot. We might easily have done it in an hour, taken the path across the hills, felt the wind on our faces, heard the sound of running water, but I'd taken one look at him in his pinstripe suit, and his leather soled shoes, and I hadn't even thought to suggest it.

He looked more or less like I'd imagined from our brief telephone conversation the week before, his voice slightly clipped and formal, a solicitor's voice, a pinstriped, three piece suit sort of voice:

A delicate matter concerning your acquaintance with Mrs. Amanda Fleetwood.

Pause. Clearing of throat; then measured tones, softly sympathetic, bad news to convey. I was to see him at my earliest convenience,... and I should bring some means of identification: a passport, a driving license.

Amanda Fleetwood was dead. She'd passed away in what had sounded to me like suspicious circumstances, some six months ago now, but he assured me the police had ruled out any possibility of foul play.

The causes were natural. Entirely natural, Mr. Rowan. And then: It's very sad of course. She was no age. No age at all.

He drove the way he spoke, with stiff, formal movements of his body and he had an air of calm assurance, peering slightly over his nose like a headmaster on the lookout for signs of indiscipline among other road users, of whom there were few that morning. It was no quicker by car. The only road that came anywhere near the valley of Drummaurdale took us around the far side of Ullswater, a distance of some twenty miles, much of it narrow, threading between hills and meadows and forest lush with midsummer greens. It was impressive country, but we heard and felt nothing of its wildness, smelled nothing but the perfumed polish of his car's immaculate interior.

As we closed on our destination, every moment felt like the violation of an ancient precept, for in my imagination that house did not have a road linking it to the outside world at all. It existed independently, a place apart, a place that could only be entered on foot and with one's senses first purified by the breath of mountains - not that it mattered now, I supposed, for with Amanda gone, and Beatrice too, how could this place hold meaning for me any more?

The way became more tortuous by degrees and less well maintained as we drove on past the last lonely farm,... the last telephone. Here there were great swells in the tarmac as grass and reeds strained to burst through from beneath. It was lonely country, yes, but here also the outlines of the hills became once more familiar to me. I saw the great grassy dome of Drummaur Fell, the rising monolith of Grey Crag, and the long ridge of the Roman Road running high above the trackless eastern valleys.

We were almost there now.

There was a gate at the end of the tarmac - closed to keep the beasts from wandering off the fell: the sheep, the deer, the wild ponies. I thought we might have left the car there, but Lamarr, fearful of rain, had me open the gate so we could drive through. We then proceeded at a walking pace, his shiny Range Rover striding cautiously over the bumps and hollows of the track. And so, somewhat ponderously, we skirted the open fell and finally drew up within sight of the wood that encircled the house.

It's a queer old place, he said at last, as if to soften me up for the shock of it. Very old fashioned.

He stepped out of the car and looked around at the hills. We were in the midst of them here, a ring of two thousand footers crowned with fine outcrops of shattered black rock - perfectly sculpted to comb the wind; to make it moan. Lamarr seemed to shudder at the sound as if it were the baying of wolves.

And it's terribly remote. he went on, again by way of warning.

Lonely, yes, I replied.

The hills did not move him, I thought. He lived and worked in the middle some of the finest scenery in England, yet I fancied his eyes were rarely lifted above the plane of his desktop.

I don't know how she managed for so long out here on her own, he went on. Its so,... so,... he searched for the right adjective, finally settling on 'inconvenient'.

She did manage though, I reminded him.

He conceded that she had indeed managed - managed quite well in fact. It's a question of getting used to it, I suppose,... of not minding,... of not missing life's little luxuries. He wrinkled his nose as if not quite believing his own sentiments.

May I ask, when did you last see her, Mr Lamarr?

It was shortly before she died. We had lunch. She seemed perfectly well. It was very sad, Mr. Rowan. Very sad.

I suppose you found me through her letters. I haven't seen her for a long time, but we wrote regularly. As her executor you must have come across letters,... they might have seemed a little strange.

Lamarr half closed his eyes and gave a faint smile, a gesture of reassurance, of discretion. There were letters, yes, quite illegible I have to say. I did try to decipher them in case they were pertinent to her estate, but they were beyond me, like a foreign language, foreign symbols, hieroglyphs - but neither Greek, nor Russian. Very puzzling! You were the author of those letters?

It was a personal code,... I said, wondering how to even begin explaining the inexplicable. A romantic sort of thing, between me and her.

Again the faint smile, the half closing of his eyes. I understand, Mr. Rowan. But it wasn't through the letters I found you. I'm sorry. I should have told you before now. You are a beneficiary. You were named in her will.

He looked at me then, studied me for a reaction. How many times had he told someone that, I wondered? You are a beneficiary,... pause for scrutiny,... for analysis. Shall we go inside?

He led me into the wood, along the tunnelled path through which we could see the garden gate. Beyond it was the blue grey slate of the house itself, and the green front door - images first seen one clear spring morning a decade ago. It was coming back now, memories I thought I'd laid to rest, but I felt a terrible pressure in my chest, something trying to burst free, and I hung back, afraid I could not bring myself to cross the threshold into that strange world again.

Lamarr prattled pompously, not yet aware that I was shrinking ever further behind. It needs an awful lot of work to bring it up to standard of course, he was saying. It must be freezing here in Winter. And of course the road, such as it is, gets blocked at the first hint of bad weather.

Incongruous in his suit, he produced an impressive bunch of keys and proceeded to try the lock, but to his surprise found the door already open. He walked in, and I followed, half closing my eyes as the breath of the place took me. Then I nearly ran into the back of him when he pulled up sharp. I was confused at first and thoroughly self absorbed, so I did not immediately register what he was staring at. Slowly, I followed his gaze and it was then I saw her: a woman, standing at the foot of the stairs, one hand on the banister rail.

She was in her early thirties perhaps, dressed in the long tweed skirt and the blouse I remembered Beatrice wearing that first night long ago. She even wore the little silver clasp at her throat, a string of pearls hanging over the jut of an ample bosom. Her hair was long and dark, and tied up in the Edwardian fashion, exactly as Beatrice's had been. The look of her, the feel, the mood of the woman in this house,... it was startling and for an instant my heart leaped to an inevitable conclusion. It had all been a mistake! Beatrice was alive! She was there, waiting to welcome me back, about to smile in greeting,... except Beatrice would have been much older now,... like me.

The colour had completely drained from Lamarr's face and I guessed he was thinking the same. The woman, for a moment, seemed similarly transfixed by us, but then she let out a startling growl, cat like, primitive, and she sprang at us, bowling us aside like skittles before making her escape through the open door. As she passed, I felt a tremendous strength and a heat, and I caught the scent of soap, of lavender. My God - the scent of Beatrice! But above all, even in the violence of the moment, I had felt the cool, starchy smoothness of her blouse upon my skin and then my heart had folded upon itself, leaving me numb with a shock that ran far deeper than Lamarr could ever have guessed.

I was too shaken by it to even think of chasing her, always supposing I could have run more than a hundred yards in the first place. Instead I gazed out as she tore down the path, the heavy skirt held high, her legs bare and efficiently muscular, like a hill runner's, like a wild animal's. She looked back once, as her hair fell, and a single beam of sunlight cut clean through the dross of decades to illuminate her face, to still my heart.

I wanted to say that I knew this woman, that I had known her all my life, known her for many lives, but clearly I did not know her at all.

CHAPTER 2

The legacy of Beatrice

It had begun with news of Amanda's death. This had taken some time to sink in, and the experience was unlike anything I'd known because Amanda had never been a real person to me, only a figure half glimpsed, like a stranger through frosted glass. It was Beatrice I had loved and Beatrice whose unacceptable loss I had struggled with. Before driving up to Westmorland that time to meet with Lamarr, I had come to the conclusion the purpose of my journey was to bear witness to the ending of an era, and a period of great mystery, one the tides of change had decided to dissolve, without revealing much by way of answers.

I knew now that was not what any of this meant at all. It was not the end of anything, but a new course whose purpose I could discern no more clearly than when it had begun ten years ago. It seemed unlikely, I know, but the strangeness of the circumstances and the trembling in my heart confirmed that all of this was indeed the case, and that I had better prepare myself for what was coming.

My God, said Lamarr. For a moment there I thought,...

I know,... me too. She gave me quite a shock. Are you all right?

Lamarr's shirt tails were hanging below his waistcoat and his tailored trousers had ridden up his legs to reveal a good six inches of hairy shin. It would have been funny had he not looked so very pale. He dusted himself down and covered up his embarrassment with a show of false indignation.

This is very distressing. Whoever that was, I'll find out, make no mistake,... no mistake, Mr Rowan!

I gazed around. The place did not appear to have been ransacked. It was neat and clean, as if it were still lived in and had not stood empty for six months.

Nothing seems to have been disturbed, Mr Lamarr. What about papers? Money?

I have Mrs Fleetwood's legal documents at the office, and what little cash she appears to have kept here. But the rest, all her personal things, her possessions, her clothes, are all as they were.

Lamarr began tapping the buttons on his mobile, trying to get through to the local police, some twenty miles away. Damn and blast the thing. We must be in a dead zone. I don't understand how she got in. The lock hasn't been forced and I'm certain I left everything secure the last time I was here. Certain, Mr Rowan!

There used to be a key in a niche of the wall by the gate, I recall - Mrs Fleetwood might not have mentioned that to you. It's feasible the woman - the intruder - could have used it, if she'd known where to look.

Then we need to get a joiner up here. We'll have to change the lock,... Damn this telephone. Damn the woman. The whole country's riddled with thieves. With thieves, Mr Rowan. I had thought that out here we might be spared the moral decay of our times!

This doesn't feel like a robbery, Mr Lamarr. This feels like - I don't know - something else entirely

Lamarr was still flustered and I began to realise his distress was genuine. She was wearing Mrs Fleetwood's things, he said. She ran off in them.

I know. That was curious - seeing her dressed that way. But we disturbed her, frightened her. She couldn't very well have undressed before running off could she? Did she leave her own clothes here, I wonder? Perhaps we should look. They might give us some clues as to her identity.

Her own clothes? What do you mean?

What she was wearing just now - they were not the sort of clothes one would wear out and about, wouldn't you say? It was more of a costume, authentic to the last stitch, I'd say, the kind of things Beatrice wore when she lived here. So, perhaps, whoever our intruder was, she came just to dress up in them,... to pretend.

Lamarr was looking at me as if I'd lost my mind. To pretend what?

Well, to pretend to be Beatrice. Even as I spoke these words I knew how odd they sounded. Yet what other explanation was there?

I'm sorry, Mr Rowan, you're losing me. Who is Beatrice?

I mean Amanda. Forgive me; Beatrice was another name I knew her by - an affectionate name, a nickname, you understand?

I see. But why would anyone want to dress up as a dead woman? He shuddered. I've never heard anything like it. It's too gruesome.

We should check anyway, I said. We talked about the letters; it would be unfortunate if any had gone missing. Perhaps you could look in the desk. I'll check the kitchen,... and upstairs.

But I was not really concerned about the letters. I would have been embarrassed to think of anyone else reading them, for they were sexually intimate, but if their language had defeated Lamarr, I was sure they would not be understood by anyone else, barring an expert on ciphers, of whom there were not likely to be many thereabouts.

I watched for a moment while he began a delicate and respectful search of the roll-top desk. It was the desk at which I had imagined her sitting all those years, looking out upon the hills, and writing her letters to me, a language only we had understood, a language she had taught me in this very room, a language whose every arcane symbol bore a hint of the essence of this place.

Leaving him to it, I made my way along the broad passage and glanced into the kitchen. There, the cast iron range was hissing contentedly, a kettle about to boil, a pitcher of fresh milk on the table. None of this struck me as outrageous, as an affront to my memories. I tried to whip up some anger but it wouldn't come. Indeed, I found myself inexplicably comforted by it all. The range was the heart of the house. When it died, the house also died, but with experience and measured attention, it could be kept going indefinitely, instinct drawing one back to toss on a log, to rake the embers, to empty the ash. Evidently our intruder knew about such things.

And the clock, the great beast of a thing with its soporific ticking was precisely fifty minutes slow, and therefore exactly as it should have been. Trembling a little I took the watch from my pocket, the watch that had last been set to this clock a decade ago, both of them reassuringly out of time. All was as it should have been, and exactly as I had imagined it. Thinking back, to have entered Cragside that day and found it dead and cold, would have been devastating. It would have been the end of everything, when in fact it seemed as if the house were merely waiting for my return.

I paused for a moment, my hand on the banister, as I gazed upstairs to the landing with its spidery Aspidistra. It was green and healthy, receiving water, being looked after. I wiped my hand over the banister: it was clean, not a trace of dust. I placed a foot on the first step, intending to go up. The bedroom was the obvious place for a woman to change her clothes, but the memories were coming back too strongly now. The breath of it, the creak of its boards, the whispering of the range.

Lamarr found me brewing tea at the table. Anything missing? I asked him.

Not that I can tell. But the stove! It's alight,...

Yes. It has been for ages, I'd say, judging by the cosy feel of the house. There's fresh milk in the jug, a chicken over there being readied for the oven. It seems you have a squatter, Mr Lamarr.

Oh dear,... I do hope not. They're a devil to remove. Are there any,... em,... garments lying around?

I haven't looked properly. In the bedrooms possibly, but I can't bring myself to go up just now,... perhaps later.

Are you feeling unwell? It was quite a shock.

It's just memories. I don't know how much Mrs Fleetwood told you,... I mean about our relationship.

He made a gesture with his hands as if to say he did not know, nor did he need to know.

It seems our squatter was kind enough to brew us a pot of tea. Do you take sugar, Mr Lamarr.

Not usually, but on this occasion I'll make an exception.

We sat at the table drinking tea from Beatrice's fine China cups, my eye drawn once more by the banister rail that I could still see through the kitchen door. And in my mind, I could also see her, the woman, her hand upon the rail; the poise of her, the stillness - so like Beatrice! And the clothes; the fit of them; the way they held her in, held her proud and upright. I was moved by it in a way I could not fathom.

I thought of the bedroom, the scent of lavender, the scent of her, and I heard the sound of the beck, the gentle knocking of the sash in the wind, and I heard her voice calling me softly, Joshua,.... Joshua,....

Lamarr leaned forward, his brow furrowed with concern. You've gone very pale, Mr Rowan. Are you sure you're all right?

I'll be fine, thank you.

Perhaps we should get down to business.

Of course. You said I was a beneficiary. It's the letters I suppose. It was very kind of Mrs Fleetwood to think of me. Kind of you to bring me here,... to see the place again.

Lamarr shifted in his seat and cast me a guilty look. Well, he said, the letters are included of course. But actually Mrs Fleetwood gave instructions that the house and its contents were to be made over in your name. Really, I would not have dragged you all this way otherwise.

I looked at him for what seemed a long time, at his smooth, boyish face, at the fine blonde hair, the grey eyes. He smiled but there was something secretive, I thought, in the uneven curl of his lips.

You mean Cragside?

Yes. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have delayed so long in telling you. I wanted you to see the place first. I wasn't sure if you'd been here before. I didn't want you to come expecting - well - perhaps more than what it is.

More?

As I've told you, it needs a lot of work to bring it up to scratch. There's no electricity, no gas, no telephone. Indeed in it's current condition, stuck way out here, I'm afraid it's not worth very much at all. What I'm saying is that it will need investment. Investment, Mr Rowan.

Yes, I'm sure you're right.

The structure is sound I'm told, but strictly nineteenth century,... and I'll bet there's not a fitting newer than late Edwardian. You might open it as a museum, if it weren't so remote,... but such as it is, it is now yours, Mr Rowan.

I don't understand. She must have had family,... there was a husband.

That's as may be, but her wishes were very specific.

I can see they were. I just wasn't expecting it. Would you mind if I took a moment, outside; I feel rather hot suddenly.

Trying to mirror the restraint of this man was impossible. I wanted to cry, I wanted to run up the fell-side until my heart burst. I wanted to lay down beside the memory of Beatrice and will myself to die because there could be no life without her. But life refused to be budged and there were things to be discussed, to be thought through calmly and rationally.

I needed some air.

I found the gardens overgrown, the lawns like wild meadows, the beds and borders bursting with lavender, with dianthus and rosemary, all competing with opportunist weeds blown in from the valley. I sought the beck, the little shingle bank on the fringe of the surrounding wood, where I recalled sitting years ago, regarding the house with its backdrop of oak and beech, the soaring fell beyond, clouds tearing and rippling over its upper folds. Then I took from my pocket the pebble of pink veined quartz that I'd plucked from the clear water, while sitting here, that first spring morning.

What had she been thinking? I was nothing to her,... it was Joshua she had loved.

Chapter 3

The world collides

We stayed no more than an hour, Lamarr being anxious to return to the office so we could sort out the necessary papers and begin the process of having the deeds made over in my name. We searched the dry stone wall around the gate for the spare key but found nothing, so Lamarr left the house by the back door, making sure the front was barred from the inside, so even if the intruder had the key, she would be unable to get in again.

I had suggested we might leave the door unbarred, for if she could not get in, then how could she return Beatrice's things? He had thought my idea a bit eccentric.

I assure you, we shall see hide nor hare of those things again. Hide nor hare, Mr Rowan!

He had also damped the fire down in the grate. It would burn itself out in a matter of hours, the heat and the life of the place ebbing away with the dying of the embers. I suppose these were all sensible precautions, but the house was like no other, and normal rules did not apply, though it would have been hopeless to have tried explaining all of this to him. I remember hoping instead, as we returned to his car, that the woman might have had a key to the back door as well, then she could slip in and re-light the fire, keep the place warm, keep it alive. I could not explain any of this even to myself, other than except perhaps that a part of me was denying the simple truth of Beatrice's death, that I was projecting something onto the stranger that she did not, in reality, possess at all.

We returned to Windermere in the early afternoon. It's narrow streets were crowded with vehicles, its pavements solid with a crush of pedestrians - locals and tourists alike, buzzing around the shops and cafe's. There was an anxious, frantic air to their movements, a panic to get the last of everything; the last parking space, the last vacancy in the B+B, the last newspaper from the stand. It was the atmosphere of a city, poured into the minuscule volume of a picturesque village and it had never failed to amaze me how the glorious emptiness of the fells could nestle so closely with these commercially crammed towns.

Lamarr had an office above an estate agent's on the main thoroughfare. As we walked by the window, I saw houses for sale at mind boggling prices, all of them businesses: bed and breakfast places, small hotels, holiday cottages. It made me wonder where people actually lived if every available roof was now simply a means of making money. And what would be left for the tourists to see anyway if every building they looked upon was just another hotel?

A middle aged blonde with big lips waved to Lamarr from within. He registered her with nothing more than a sideways motion of his eyes, but I sensed at once there was something between them.

His offices were small - a reception area with a secretary, his own private office, a filing room and a lavatory, all thrust high in the eaves so that the beams came right down to shoulder level. The effect was at the same time claustrophobic and giddying, as if we were in a box perched at the top of a tall tower. There was an all pervading smell of percolated coffee, and then a sweeter, gentle fragrance belonging to the secretary. We settled in his office with coffee. There were piles of bound papers everywhere, mountains of them, an air of chaos about the room that surprised me, because Lamarr had seemed like a man for whom precision and order were paramount.

So, Mr Rowan, have you thought about what you intend to do?

About?

Well, the house,... bearing in mind the investment you require,... or perhaps I could be of assistance in selling it on,...

Oh, no, I wouldn't want to sell it.

Then you have a plan?

Not exactly. Not long term. But I have the feeling I would like to live there, at least for a little while.

He looked crestfallen. Are you sure? Have you thought this through? Have you considered the dreadful isolation,... the complete lack of services?

Yes, I've thought about that.

But how would you make a living?... I presume you work?

I was a programmer, but I'm, well, scraping by on other means now. I imagine the house would be cheaper to run than my own - I mean with so few services, the property tax must be very low,... if anything at all. And without a mortgage, my outgoings would be halved.

But I don't imagine there's much call for computer programmers around here, Mr Rowan,... at least not within commuting distance of Cragside.

You're probably right, but I'm out of date with computers anyway. The systems I worked on are long obsolete. I don't know what I'll do. I shall sell my house. Prices are quite high at the moment and the market is buoyant, as they say,... I should be able to sell it quickly. I can pay off what I owe, then with the capital, I dare say I could manage, if I lived modestly.

I had not thought any of this through. I was making it up as I went along, formulating my life's plan on the hoof in Lamarr's office, brushing aside the practicalities and thinking only that she had wanted me to have it - not to sell, but to live in. To somehow continue the fantasy without her!

But it means nothing without you Beatrice,... nothing!

Of course, I sensed Lamarr had designs on the house himself. Every disused outbuilding, every bankrupt farm, no matter how remote, was ripe for redevelopment as tourist accommodation. That was why he'd taken me out to see it, to disappoint me with allusions to its terminal decrepitude, before telling me it was mine. Perhaps he had plans to arrange its purchase by his estate agent friend, downstairs. There would be some joint investment,... the guts of the house ripped out for the sake of a television and an immersion heater,... a tidy business as yet another holiday cottage - rural location,... tranquil setting, would suit fell walkers,... seekers of solitude.

I fancied all these things were passing before his eyes as he looked at me. He might have frowned at the dashing of such plans, but instead he smiled, a genuine smile, I thought. Professional. Magnanimous.

Then I wish you well, Mr. Rowan. And if I can be of any assistance in the sale of your own house,....

I'd already disappointed him enough that day, so I agreed. Yes,... thank you. And possibly if you could also advise me on investing the capital, when the time comes.

I'd be most happy to, Mr. Rowan.

That was it then. My life was changing course. I felt it like a tug on the wire connecting me to things. Over here now, it was saying. But why? I thought. What on earth does any of this mean?

The business took no more than half an hour but he seemed anxious not to break our acquaintance just yet and proposed we went for a late lunch at a local hotel - he just had one 'phone call to attend to first. Of course by now I suspected there was always going to be a motive behind anything Lamarr offered to do, but for all that I was beginning to find his company congenial, so I agreed and he asked me if I'd be so kind as to wait in his reception room.

His secretary was a small, mature, mousy woman, rather stern of countenance who sat well hidden behind her computer monitor. She did not acknowledge my presence, nor even greet me with anything other than a brief and somewhat ambiguous tightening of her facial muscles. There were the usual selection of ancient magazines: cars and boats and celebrities, to which I was drawn after some ten minutes of staring at the magnolia walls. They all seemed the same I thought, leafing through them idly, articles on nothing very much squashed in between reams of lifestyle advertisements. The magazines tried to convince me that my existence had no meaning unless I wore that particular wristwatch, drove a car that performed in a particular way, went for my holidays to a particular destination, and my wife or girlfriend had a figure of those particular proportions.

It was an interesting concept, I thought - blatantly false of course - but as a means of perpetually pacifying us, it was a method that had stood the test of time,... all of us locked into a dream of eventual satisfaction, but one gained through a system geared towards delivering only a state of permanent dissatisfaction. The magazines looked old and jaded and they sickened me,... memories of dentists waiting rooms perhaps? Or was it something else? God forbid it was that old business starting up all over again. Ghita had said it would, that once you had tasted it, once you had touched the truth, even if you did not want to believe in it, it would always come back at you - again and again, until you embraced it.

I was aware of the door opening. Then, a man whom I took to be another client, walked in. I did not pay him much attention, and after a brief glance I returned my gaze to the bit of carpet between my feet. I remembered reading how Aldous Huxley had once looked closely at the ridged pattern in the weave of his trouser leg and suddenly seen in them a truth as profound as any revealed in meditation, so I tried to find it in the industrial grade weave of the beige carpet tile.

Of course there were no answers there and anyway my efforts were interrupted when a pair of shoes entered my field of vision. They were brown brogues, a little tired and in want of polish, poking out from beneath a pair of hideously cheap blue, polyester trousers.

Mr Rowan is it?

It was a large man,... puffy, slovenly, with a stale odour about him and a badly set nose. He had a sickly complexion and a disquieting predilection for fixing you with his eyeballs. He offered me a glimpse of what I took to be a warrant card. By the door stood a uniformed policewoman, middle to late thirties, starched,... somehow pinched and severe.

Detective Inspector Planer, announced the man. I'd like a word.

A policeman?

I did not react immediately, but instead gazed at him, wondering more about the meaning of this strange new dynamic than what the man might possibly want with me. His tone was distinctly abrasive and I sensed unpleasantness ahead. I had done nothing wrong, but sometimes fate steps in and stirs things up in a mischievous way. His energy was strictly Yang, I thought, very strong, but indiscriminate, and without sensitivity. Such energy was the destroyer of cities, the explosive out-fall of volcanoes and the deadly storm,... things not always avoidable.

He seemed to tire of my dazed reverie and checked to see if I was still awake. Mr Rowan?

Yes,.. I'm sorry, I said. Please go on. Though, actually I'm just waiting to see Mr Lamarr.

Such energy was better met by Yin compliance, I thought, so I softened down and prepared for the wind to come howling through.

Is Lamarr your solicitor?

I wouldn't say that exactly. I smiled. Why? Am I likely to need one? And then I thought that was too much, a bit of Yang coming back at him, a focus only for the storm to concentrate itself upon. I had meant to lighten the atmosphere, thinking there was no need for the gravity suggested by this man's expression, but there was no response - no engagement of humour, no social intercourse,... just the penetrating stare coming back,... interrogative,... intimidating.

He made a show of hitching up his trousers, then produced a polythene bag in which there was a single sheet of paper, a photocopy of one of the many coded letters I had written to Beatrice over the years. When I saw it, my heart sank into my bowels. The police had a copy of a private, intimate letter, and now they wanted to know what it said! This devil, this storm, this indiscriminate Yang had been roaring through the cabinets and drawers of Cragside, and this piece of quiet intimacy had blown out of the window, to be grasped and gazed at by the world.

You write this? he asked, thrusting the paper under my nose.

What now? More Yang for him to annihilate? Yes, I did.

Then would you mind saving me a lot of time by telling me what it says?

I scanned the symbols, spelling out the words slowly in my head. I had not read, nor written in this particular code for a while now. If the purpose was to be reminded of it then I would have appreciated a little more subtlety from the unknown,.. and also a little more discretion. Better to meet this thrust with a little Yang, I thought: Actually, I'm afraid I'd mind very much.

The devil hitched up his trousers again, then homed in, stooping lower to draw his head level with mine, his eyes ludicrously snakelike and penetrating. It was a melodramatic gesture,... completely overdone, but intimidating all the same. His breath stank of stale cigarettes and his teeth were a uniform yellow. He would not live much longer, I thought and fancied I could see his flesh already disintegrating, shot with unsubtle Yang, overdone, parched, burned out and bleached.

Are you saying you won't co-operate?

Not at all, it's just that it's a very personal letter, I'd be embarrassed to read it aloud. Might I ask what you're doing with it? Balance of Yin and Yang, I thought,... keep it moving, keep it dynamic, feel the waves and react accordingly.

Then there came a familiar presence at my shoulder - Lamarr hovering and agitated. I'm afraid I gave it to him, Mr Rowan. Well, not to this gentleman exactly. Indeed I don't know this gentleman. Erm,... you're not with the local constabulary I take it - only I didn't catch your division?

Planer straightened himself up wearily and levelled his gaze at Lamarr, then hitched up his trousers yet again. Was this a nervous mannerism? I wondered. Special Branch, he said. It was passed on to us by the local plods. He tossed a scornful gesture back in the direction of the surly W.P.C., who registered this insult with a faint curling of her lip. She did not like him either, I thought.

Well, said Lamarr. I've spoken at length to Mr. Rowan and I'm quite satisfied that, given the erm,... nature of his relationship with Mrs Fleetwood, the letters are, as he says, of a deeply personal and,.. erm,.. purely romantic nature.

Too much Yang, I thought. It left him open to a crushing assault.

I'm not interested in your opinions, Mr Lamarr. If I want them I shall ask for them, but for now would you kindly piss off out of my sight.

Blistering Yang,.. too much, too much! And quite offensive as well. I felt myself becoming faint, the extraordinary energy filling the room and perceptibly increasing the pressure, making it seem smaller, making it seem as if the walls were closing in. Lamarr persisted: It would be insensitive to insist he read it out to you here.

Would the nick be private enough?

At the mention of the police station, my resolve began to weaken, but Lamarr was surprisingly indignant and began to raise a good head of steam. There has been no crime, Inspector. Nothing suspicious has occurred. I passed on copies of those letters in good faith, before the inquest into Mrs Fleetwood's death, thinking they might be pertinent. But the inquest revealed the causes were entirely natural and that there was nothing untoward in her life at all. There is no case,... no suspicion. You're six months out of date. The letters are now immaterial. Immaterial Inspector!

Being rather slow in dealing with matters of the material world these days, it was only just dawning on me who, or to be more precise exactly what Detective Inspector Planer was, and I was disappointed. Having no experience in these matters, I had always imagined secret policemen to be more subtle in their appearance and their manner, that the organs of the state would be of a more gentlemanly breed - made to measure suits, Burberry raincoats and BBC accents,... friendly chaps with impeccable manners, and with whom one all too easily let down one's guard, Yin transforming into Yang and back again to suit the needs of the moment.

Lamarr also surprised me. Planer was a terrifying figure of a man, a seething, stinking devil, and yet the bumbling Lamarr had gone for him with the instinctive abandon of a terrier snapping at the tyres of a ten-ton truck. Planer remained unshaken of course. Coded messages to remote locations make me nervous, Mr Rowan. There are people who wish to do us harm. People who wish to wipe us from the face of the earth. You do watch the news don't you?

Sarcasm, I thought. Blistering,... withering. Yang energy was now white hot, like metal ready to melt.

Such people hide in quiet places, he went on. They pass each other coded messages,... like this one. They sneak and they plot. What say we turn over your house and see what we can find? See what Internet sites you're fond of browsing - I assume you own a computer? Like pornography do you?

I was puzzled by that. What had pornography to do with anything? Granted my home PC might have contained a few saucy pictures gleaned from the raunchier side of the Internet, but nothing to make me ashamed or fear exposure as either a prat, or a pervert. Was he projecting something of himself onto me perhaps? Did he have a peculiarity in this direction himself, one that went beyond an innocent male fascination for the unclothed female?

I thought it better not to enquire.

Lamarr was almost popping with indignation and he looked to the policewoman as if he hoped she'd call the brute off. But she was nothing, a shadow,... and clearly quite powerless. Really, Inspector. I think you're making too much of this.

Planer ignored him. Tell me what it says, Mr Rowan. If it's as innocent as your friend here suggests, then you've nothing to worry about and I need never speak to you again.

I could have told him, I thought. I could have made even the policewoman blush, perhaps, by the frankness of the language,... except, it would have been a violation a hundred times worse than trailing exhaust fumes into the imaginary world of Cragside that morning.

By all means search my house, I said. I assume you've already searched Cragside and found nothing suspicious.

You think I won't?

I felt a rising claustrophobia, an urge to bowl everyone aside like the woman that morning, to bolt for the door, to feel the sky over me once more and the grass beneath my feet, to redress the serious imbalance that was now directly harmful. On the contrary. I'm sure you'll do whatever you think is necessary, and though I must admit I find your manner most intimidating, I will not tell you what's in those letters. They're very personal, very intimate letters, between me and Mrs Amanda Fleetwood.

You think we can't decode them? You think we won't find out what's in them, Mr Rowan?

I had led a fairly blameless life. My last contact with the police had been years ago - a ticking off for driving around with a broken brake light. The officer on that occasion had conducted himself in an open and straightforward manner, somewhat stern, but ultimately fair. This man, however, was a bully, and not a particularly intelligent one either.

I'm sure you can. In fact I'm surprised you haven't already. I can only think such things cost money and are charged at an hourly rate, that your budget is tight perhaps and you were hoping to spend it on something else. But surely, the people who want to do us harm use codes that cannot be broken. They don't use pencil and paper and symbolic substitutions like this. Decode them if you must, but I won't do it for you.

The Yang of D.I. Planer had encountered no channel through which it could flow successfully and I detected a hint of uncertainty, even a moment's hesitation. And why not, I wonder?

I told you, it's because they're personal, and because I don't believe I have to.

Planer definitely seemed to be running out of steam. He turned to his companion and with a sigh, he motioned her through the door. Come on then constable, he said. We'll have to do it the hard way. And then to me, in parting: Remember, Mr Rowan, we have our eye on you.

Chapter 4

The Gentle Current

Lamarr and I took a rather late lunch on the terrace of the Ash Tree Hotel, in Bowness. The man was clearly a buffoon. A buffoon, Mr. Rowan. He shook his head in dismay. I mean, really. The arrogance. And in my office of all places.

But how did they know I'd be there?

Well, that was my doing, I'm afraid. I mentioned it to that rather surly woman constable, I mean that you were coming. She's with the local force and had an interest in the case for a while - it being on her patch, so to speak. She was merely doing her duty I suppose. I was going to tell you about it over lunch. I didn't think for a minute they'd actually want to speak to you.

It does appear to have been something of an overreaction. And it's troubling for me, after writing a few coded love-letters to find myself on a terrorist watch list.

Well, I suppose I can understand their curiosity, particularly in the present somewhat overcharged atmosphere,... bombs on buses, bombs on trains, and car-bombs being driven into airport foyers! Oh, Lord, whatever's the world coming to?

Something's breaking through, perhaps, I said.

Hmn?

The world, Mr Lamarr. Something's breaking through, into the world.

But from where? I don't follow.

From within us - I mean collectively. All sorts of values are being rejected, though not all of us are driven to kill or even to frighten others, I suppose. Mostly we just sit and think and feel bad, feel that something's missing, that something has to change. We can't predict it, Mr. Lamarr. It's like a landslide, everything that's familiar is changing, even the ground beneath our feet. I don't know if it's for good or ill,... It seems ill at the moment, I grant you, but it may provoke a tidal wave of good, I don't know. It's hard to say, but something's definitely breaking through.

You're a philosopher, Mr. Rowan?

Not at all,... merely puzzled by everything.

It was a beautiful afternoon, the sun was hot, the sky perfectly clear, a merciful breeze wafting over the terrace from the lake below. I could smell Honeysuckle and Jasmine,.... and Lavender,....

Beatrice? Is that you?

Anyway, Mr. Lamarr, thank you for supporting me.

You're very welcome. We must have laws, Mr Rowan. They are the bedrock of civilisation. I will not see them bent or broken. Mr Planer was plainly bending them. Conversely, since there is no law against private coded correspondence, and you were not under arrest, you were well within your rights to refuse him.

Perhaps you're curious as to why Beatrice and I kept in touch that way.

I don't need to know, Mr Rowan, though I presume it was a matter of,... shall we say discretion?

Partly, yes. We were both married at the time,... though neither of us happily, I’m afraid.

I'm sorry to hear it.

Water under the bridge, Mr. Lamarr. But mainly it was just a game,... a lover's game.

I was embarrassing him now. He shifted uncomfortably. You're married, Mr. Rowan? I hadn't considered that.

I'm married, yes,... at least in the sense that it was never legally annulled. My wife was living in London the last I heard,... with our son. We don't keep in touch. Indeed I have no address for them any longer.

I see.

I don't know about Mrs. Fleetwood's husband. I know they were still together when she and I,...

Quite,... yes,... she was legally divorced some time ago.

Mr. Lamarr, could I ask you about the circumstances of her death?...

It had seemed to me an obvious thing for anyone to want to know and I had been wanting to ask all morning but he'd seemed to go out of his way to avoid actually laying the details before me. Now he appeared reluctant again, almost visibly squirming.

Natural causes, Mr. Rowan. There was a weakness, I understand,... I forget the exact medical term, something in the brain. It was quite sudden,... and painless. He clicked his fingers for effect. Like that, Mr. Rowan. Better than withering away in pain and old age, I suppose. The constable informed me of all this, since she knew I was acquainted with Mrs Fleetwood - the constable is not without feeling, though she does come across as being rather stern.

The nature of her work, I suppose. Was Bea,.. I mean Amanda,... found at the house?

He looked away, perhaps hoping I would not pursue things any further. There was clearly something about the precise circumstances that disturbed him. No. It wasn't at the house. I suppose I should say things did at first appear,... unusual. She was found a little way from the house in fact, by a tarn - I forget the name,... begins with a D, I think.

Drummaur Tarn? She'd collapsed there?

Lamarr looked stricken now, unconsciously twisting his napkin in his hands. It sounded such a lonely place,... I can't explain it,... what was she doing there?

I waited while he gathered himself. Surely there was more to it than he was telling me! Eventually, he looked up and smiled. It struck me then, and not for the first time that day, that he might have been in love with her. You used to call on her, Mr. Lamarr?... I mean socially.

Perhaps he misunderstood my meaning.

Mr Rowan,... I assure you.

"I only mention it, because when we were at the house this morning and we saw the intruder, you knew she was wearing Beatrice's things, things Beatrice only wore around that house - her costume."

Lamarr nodded. "Yes,... quite so, Mr. Rowan. Quite so. I must say it sounds strange to hear you calling her by that name: Beatrice. I was not aware of it, though I can imagine it now. It suits her very well, and the clothes she wore, the old house,... yes - very well indeed. I first met her when she came to me looking for advice on drawing up her will. She seemed at once a very confident and attractive woman, very smart,.... very fashionable, though conventionally dressed, I hasten to add. I found her most impressive. Most impressive, Mr. Rowan.

"Anyway, the will was a simple business,... but I took it upon myself to drive around to the house unexpectedly one morning,.. to clarify some details that I suppose could easily have waited until she was next in town. That's when I saw her,... in her costume and I realised of course that she was not an ordinary sort of person.

"She offered me tea as if it were the most natural thing in the world. I was quite perturbed by it as you can probably imagine,... it simply wasn't Amanda! Oh, I knew it was Amanda really, but it was as if she were acting out a role, a different character - perfectly pleasant,... in a way she was more serene than Amanda, who'd struck me as being very worldly and assertive - qualities I admit I quite like in a woman.

"I admit I'd taken quite a shine to her - you perhaps think it was unprofessional of me. But then seeing her like that, I realised she was not a woman to be desired exactly,... more one perhaps to be protected. I'm not a complicated man, my wife died many years ago. I simply wanted company,... not complication and there was clearly great complication in her life. So I decided to protect her in the only way I could, as a friend, and legal adviser.

We would dine together when she came into town,... this very hotel, in fact. But I didn't go to the house again and we never spoke of our meeting there. Indeed, I can only think of her as Amanda,... not as,...

As Beatrice?

Exactly,... and odd though it may sound, I'm coming round to the idea that we both knew two completely different women, Mr Rowan.

Yes,.. that's it exactly. But please, tell me more about Amanda,... how did she seem to you?

Well, as I said, she was a most impressive lady,... a former business woman, I understand, perfectly lovely and jolly good company. But as the years went by, I have to say I noticed a change in her. She became less outgoing, as if sinking into depression. I wish there was more I could have done, but I saw her in town less and less, as I suppose she was taken over by this,.. this strange compulsion, this other character. That side of her frightened me, Mr Rowan and I can't help feeling a little angry with Beatrice, because it was Beatrice who took Amanda away, took her out of the world so to speak,... perhaps you think all this is nonsense and I'm certainly not used to talking this way.

Please, there's no need to feel embarrassed.

I could have told him it was the world that had driven Amanda to seek retreat in the creation of Beatrice, that it was Beatrice who had enabled the consciousness she shared with Amanda to live freely to the end of her life, instead of languishing in the all too common chemically adjusted reality of our antidepressant age, that it was Beatrice who had indeed saved Amanda. But he was not ready for any of this. Nor could I have explained to him about the school of thought that teaches us how the tangible world is not really all it seems - that in some ways it is an illusion painted for us by our senses and that our absorption with this sensuality is actually the root of all our problems. These were old lessons, millennia old, from the far east, from Buddhist, Hindu, and Taoist philosophy. As a western agnostic I had long struggled with such concepts because the manifest world is an illusion that has always given me a great deal of pleasure, but also, I admit, a good deal of pain as well.

Whatever the truth of the world, illusion or no, I was old enough now to have witnessed time and again how it behaves like an infinite sink for human energy, for human consciousness. No matter how hard we pursue things, they will always remain one step out of reach. No matter how much pure Yang we expend, the world will absorb it as a mere drop in an infinite ocean. So it seemed to me the D. I. Planers and the Amanda Fleetwoods, with their outwardly directed fire and ambition, faced nothing but a burning out long before their time. Better by far to balance the Yang with the Yin, to know when to march forward boldly, and when to bend with the wind.

I shuddered. My God! It was coming back,... this view, this creeping cloak, this soft armchair pressing against the backs of my legs, inviting me to sit down, to sit easy,... to let things unfold once more. There was something moving, stirring, a connection stalking me here. I could feel it in my bones, but I refused to meet with it, this sly assassin, this closer of doors and stealer of children, this fate that had taken the purest love I had ever known - the love of a man for his child - and transformed it into something corrosive, then watched while it dissolved him.

It's very distressing, said Lamarr. Thinking of her ending her days like that, exposed to the elements,... and the wild creatures. He pushed his plate away in defeat, then took a sip of wine as if to wash away the taste,... and the thought. You knew her, Mr. Rowan. You were closer to Beatrice than I ever was to Amanda. You must find it even more upsetting.

To be honest, it hasn't hit me yet,... I said, feeling that any time soon it probably would. But we mustn't dwell on her mortal remains - really they don't mean that much. Everything she was passed from her the instant she died, passed out into the universe. And she was where she wanted to be,... I mean when she died. Drummaur tarn,... have you seen it?

Lord no. I'm not much of an outdoor man. It sounds very wild, very cold,... a horrible, lonely place to die.

No. If you could see it, see how beautiful it is, how peaceful a place, I think you'd feel better.

I looked up at the hills, at the distant bowl of Fairfield, its massive bulk rising clear five miles away, above the blue lake. When you look at hills like that, Mr Lamarr, what do you feel?

He turned casually to absorb the vista. It's very pretty of course. I'd rather have that as a backdrop for my work than the squalor of a city,... but I'm not sure it makes me feel anything very deeply, Mr Rowan.

When I look at them, I feel a stirring in my bones. I always have. It's an emotion I can't explain without resorting to a lot of strange language, and that's quite vexing for a man who once prided himself on a strictly rational approach to life. But there it is, Mr. Lamarr. These feelings are real and powerful, and Beatrice is one of only two people I've ever been with who understood that side of me. In fact, Beatrice was the embodiment of what I felt. When I've thought of her over the years, the memories have aroused in me the same emotion I'm feeling now when I look at those hills,... in simple terms it's reverence and a respect for something elemental in nature, but also something I accept is completely unknowable.

Lamarr smiled in apology. I'm not much of a spiritual man I'm afraid. I must say, I do prefer the tangible facts of my profession, a clear list of thou-shalts and thou-shalt-nots. Without such a framework, I'd be quite lost. Quite lost, Mr Rowan. But I do appreciate what you're saying.

When I had met Lamarr that morning, I had not formed an altogether sympathetic view of him. In short, I'd thought him pompous, vain, and rather shallow, but now as I looked at him in the mellowing light of that summer's afternoon, I felt a growing admiration. He had stuck doggedly to the ordinance of his profession, as I had once stuck to the logic of my own. He desired nothing more, and seemed quite content, while all I had learned over the years was that once we abandoned the probing narrowness of fact, we risked becoming lost in the noise of cosmic oblivion.

And I had been lost for so long now.

When logic fails, one has no other recourse but to fall back upon the natural currents of life, for they do exist. But in order to locate and then navigate such currents we are required to adopt a certain unstructured frame of mind, and one of the earliest, and hardest lessons we must learn is that they rarely lead us in a direction of our own choosing.

Chapter 5

The Footprints of Fate

If it's true we have free will, then it ought to be possible to avoid the troublesome connections that seem bent on sucking us back into the stream of life. You might think it should be possible to steer your own path even into oblivion if you choose, without the interference of a nannying fate. Perhaps it's true, and it is possible in most instances, that we are none of us, as individuals, entirely indispensable to the will of the Cosmos, and we might cheerfully go our way without it interfering